


Queen

by elldotsee



Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drinking, Greg's birthday, Here to see the Queen, John and Sherlock need a night out, Johnlock - Freeform, Karaoke, M/M, Parentlock, Sibling Bonding, drama queen, pub night, swishy swishy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:35:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25351741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/pseuds/elldotsee
Summary: John and Sherlock enjoy a much-needed night out
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807645
Comments: 30
Kudos: 58
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Yesterday was my birthday and I spent the entire thing outside, enjoying some truly beautiful summer weather. So! You get two-for-one today!

“You’re nicely dressed. Off to see the Queen?” 

Sherlock nodded as he sat on the edge of the sofa and laced his shoes. “Something like that. He requested my assistance. I acquiesced.” 

John looked up, eyes wide. “Oh my god… you didn’t tell me you’re feeling ill! C’mere, let me feel your forehead.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his mouth forming a little amused vee. “Yes. Well. There may have been some… brotherly coercion involved.” 

John nodded sagely, eyes twinkling. “Pictures of you starkers? Maybe an old home movie? Although if he’s planning to show it to _me_ , I think that might well backfire, since I’m a bit swayed in my bias toward endearment. Comes with the territory, I think.” John pretended to think. “Does he still have those weird connections at the Yard? Maybe he could show them… not that you’d care… never one for modesty, were you?” 

Sherlock slid onto his knees, next to where John was sitting and playing with Rosie. Her pudgy hands were busy pulling each toy out of her toy bin, dropping them on the floor one at a time from her tottering stance, and shouting ‘uh oh!’. The game had been a favourite lately. Thankfully, ‘clean up everything and put it back in the bin’ was still an equally favourite game. He snuck a kiss to the top of her head while she was distracted. 

“No! No kissy!” She protested anyway, swatting at Sherlock as he smoothed down her hair on the back of her head. It was wild, as it usually was, sticking up in random clumps, often with bits of food stuck in it. 

“You need a bath tonight, little missy.” Sherlock got to his feet, brushing off the knees of his trousers and checking to ensure that his shirt — sapphire blue, a recent birthday gift from John— was still tucked in before sliding his arms into the jacket he’d tossed onto the arm of the sofa. John stood too, moving in close and straightening Sherlock’s lapels. He gave him a sweet, chaste kiss. 

“No kissy!” Rosie yelled from the floor, not even looking up from her destruction. John chuckled and pulled Sherlock in for another, a bit longer and less chaste this time. 

“God, you’re really gonna just… leave? Looking like this?” He murmured against Sherlock’s lips. “N’fair.” 

Sherlock smiled as he stepped back. “Yes, well. Maybe if you’re well-behaved, later you might—”

“Oh shit… later! It’s Saturday, isn’t it? Oh fuck, I completely forgot.” 

John didn’t see Sherlock’s raised inquisitive brow, as he’d already turned away, rifling through the discarded newspaper and empty plates scattered across the table. 

“Your mobile is plugged into the charger in our bedroom. I found it in the cupboard this morning, completely dead.” 

Sherlock watched, bemused, as John nodded and walked to their bedroom to retrieve his phone. 

“I hate when you do that!” He called from the bedroom, but it lacked any real heat. Sherlock heard the ding as his phone was disconnected from the charger. 

“Hmm? You hate when I do what? Ruin your game of hide-and-go-seek with your mobile? Or revive it from its untimely death at your hands?” 

John returned, walking slowly, his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on the text he was typing. He didn’t answer. 

“What terrible Saturday thing have you forgot? And have you forgot it _enough_ that we are no longer obligated to participate in it? Please say yes.” 

“Yes!” Rosie chimed in, toddling over to Sherlock and grabbing hold of his trouser leg. “Up! Yes! Peees!” 

Sherlock grinned down at his daughter, bending to pick her up. He gave her another kiss to her cheek. “Yes, please, Daddy. Don’t make us do the thing. Please.” He twisted his wrist to check the time as Rosie squirmed in his arms, wanting to get down. “I have to go. Quicker I get this over with, the quicker I can get on with not helping Mycroft pick out a birthday present for Mum again until _next_ year.” 

“Lestrade’s birthday! I knew it was on Saturday, but I didn’t realise _today_ was Saturday. I was supposed to work today, but Angela needed to switch her Sunday shift and so now…” John’s overly-detailed explanation lost steam. He held his mobile in his hands, staring blankly at it. It had been a busy week — and a busy last few months, nearly a year now, as they adjusted to life as dads. It felt to Sherlock like they’d scarcely had time to breathe and enjoy anything as one milestone after another rushed by. In between all the exhilarating “firsts” and the equally terrifying ones, like Rosie’s first fever and first bump to the head, John had still been working part-time at the clinic and they’d been taking cases as often as they were needed and could make it work with Rosie and John’s schedule, though Sherlock had insisted that Graham only call them for things that were higher than a seven. 

They both were, in a word, _exhausted._ And Sherlock found that he missed John. Sure they spent most of their time in one another’s presence, but it had been a long time since they had been just John and Sherlock, rather than John-and-Sherlock, parents of Rosie or Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, consulting detectives. 

“So let’s go,” He heard himself say, and couldn’t be certain which of them was more surprised. John looked up at him quizzically, as though sure he’d misunderstood, or was about to become the latest victim of one of those prank television series. 

“Christ, you must be getting ill. You realise what I’ve just said? It’s a do. With people. For a birthday. A birthday do. At a pub, I think. I’d have to check. But with _people_ , Sherlock? You know, those things you only tolerate when absolutely necessary? The talky idiots?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded. “Yes, John. I know what a birthday entails. I think it would be… good. For us, I mean. To be… social.” He grimaced, already sure he was going to regret this. He set Rosie on the floor, handing her a block from the bin. “Text me the details. We just need to find someone to watch Rosie. I’ll hurry home. And I’ll even keep on this shirt.” 

He winked at John, who waved him off, still looking rather shocked, and hurried down the stairs, buoyed now by the promise of an evening out with John. 

* * *

**_Mrs Hudson has bridge club tonight until 8. :(_ **

_Sent 10:09_

**_Molly will be at the do._ **

_Sent 10:09_

**_Obviously Greg will be too._ **

_Sent 10:10_

**_And… that’s all the people we know._ **

_Sent 10:10_

**_Looks like you’re off the hook on that socialising_ **

_Sent 10:13_

**_That’s a shame. -SH_ **

_Sent 10:13_

**_I mean that sincerely. I was looking forward to it. -SH_ **

_Sent 10:13_

**_Wait. Don’t cancel on Lestrade yet. -SH_ **

_Sent 10:14_

**_Why not?_ **

_Sent 10:16_

**_Sherlock?_ **

_Sent 10:16_

**_Sherlock!_ **

_Sent 10:16_

**_All sorted. We’ll be home soon. -SH_ **

_Sent 10:19_

**_We?? Who’s we, Sherlock?_ **

_Sent 10:20_

**_Mycroft, obviously. -SH_ **

_Sent 10:21_

**_Do catch up, John. -SH_ **

_Sent 10:21_

**_MYCROFT?!? We’re going to let Mycroft babysit our daughter??_ **

_Sent 10:21_

**_Yes. He owes me. I have a headache from all the perfumes he’s made me sniff. The saleswoman insinuated that I should buy some for my WIFE. My WIFE JOHN. Can you imagine me with a wife? Absurd. -SH_ **

_Sent 10:22_

**_terribly sorry for your delicate sniffer and yes you’d look ridiculous with a wife but Sherlock_ **

_Sent 10:23_

**_Mycroft???_ **

_Sent 10:23_

**_I’ll wear the sapphire shirt AND jeans, John. The ones you like. -SH_ **

_Sent 10:24_

**_Ur a damn genius, have I said? Hurry that arse home_ **

_Sent 10:24_

**_Aye aye captain._ **

_Sent 10:25_

* * *

John propped his head on his fist, feeling relaxed and loose-limbed in a way he hadn’t in a long time. He felt Sherlock’s knee press against his under the table and he pressed back, squinting a bit as he tried to hear the rest of Molly’s story. There was a cat — maybe her cat? Was her cat named Tory? Toby? Tomy? — and what sounded like a whole lot of mud and maybe a jumper involved…? Molly was gesturing now, her elbow coming dangerously close to knocking over her drink. 

Next to him, Sherlock stood, gesturing with his head toward the rear of the room. _Loo._ He mouthed, and slipped away, still graceful though John didn’t miss the bit of wobble as he wove his way through the crowd. _God, his arse looked great in those jeans._

“... it was in my hair, even! Do you know how hard that is to get out? I didn’t even know we had skunks in London! I thought they were like, one of those… umm… myth— no— urban legends!” 

John made an appropriately disgusted face and nodded sympathetically. There wasn’t much else he could do. The pub was loud, large groups like theirs packed in every corner and occupying every table. People were packed around the bartop tightly, waiting to shout their drink orders at the harried-looking bartenders. Molly smiled, turning to regale someone else with her maybe-cat-and-skunk story. 

Free for now from the shouting match, John leaned back in his chair, getting his first good look at the place. They’d arrived after everyone else, but Lestrade had still been pleased as punch to see them. John and Sherlock knew most of the Yarders, the ones from the homicide division, at least. There were a few others, but John had already forgotten their names. In the far corner, just at the edge of John’s line of sight, was a small raised platform that served as a makeshift stage. Their group had been surprised to discover that tonight was karaoke night at this pub, but when they learned that the theme was “Queen”, there was a nearly-unanimous agreement to stay. So far none of their little birthday group had sung, but the night was still young and they were only on their first round of drinks. 

John slid his mobile out of his pocket to check the time and his messages. There had been a flurry of texts from Mycroft shortly after they’d arrived, seeming shockingly inept at the care of a toddler. Sherlock had been worried for Rosie, John could tell, but he’d handled his brother (mostly) gracefully and it had sorted itself out. Now, John can’t help being the one worrying a bit, wondering if they were getting on okay or if Rosie was spending the whole time missing her daddies. 

“Now what? Does he need us to draw him a nappy-changing diagram? Oh I do hope she’s saved up a good poo for him.” Sherlock’s voice in his ear was deep and shockingly seductive, considering the subject. His breath was warm on John’s cheek and smelled faintly of tequila. John chuckled and held up his mobile as Sherlock slid back into his seat. 

“Nope. No messages. No news is good news, right?” He smiled at Sherlock, who returned it without hesitation. 

“Most likely.” 

“Another drink?” Sherlock held up his nearly-empty glass for inspection before nodding. John hopped down from his stool and wove his way, much less gracefully than Sherlock had, to the bar to join the jostling throng.

He felt tired suddenly, and wondered how long they were obligated to stay in order to not hurt Lestrade’s feelings. When he’d agreed to go, he’d envisioned a much quieter atmosphere where they could catch up socially with Lestrade, buy him a few drinks and wish him well. He shook his head at himself. Christ, he was old. But he told himself he’d try and have fun for a bit longer for Lestrade’s sake. And Sherlock’s as well. It had seemed really important to him that they come tonight. John could admit that he was at least having fun ogling Sherlock and was enjoying his company — they so rarely had time together to just relax and have fun these days. 

The first few tinny notes of the next badly-sung karaoke song started. John knew this one and hummed along, pausing to shout his drink order at the finally-free bartender. 

_Another one bites the dust_

_Another one bites the dust_

_And another one gone, and another one gone_

_Another one bites the dust, yeah_

He glanced up to orient himself once the drinks were in his hand and caught Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock grinned at him, young and boyish looking. He was having a good time. He’d sat next to Sam Gregson, the newest detective on the force, whom they’d encountered on a few cases already. John thought he was a bit awkward, but Sherlock was shockingly impressed with him. _“The least idiotic detective I’ve met so far”_ had been his high praise after Sam’s quick thinking and even quicker research skills had helped Sherlock find key information in their latest case. John handed Sherlock his drink and sat down, leaning in to orient himself in their conversation. Sherlock took a sip and clinked their glasses together in thanks, before launching back into a heated debate with the sergeant over carpet colour. 

The song ended and another person took the “stage”. This time, it was one of the Yarders, someone from a different division that John didn’t know well, but recognised. She began a very giggly rendition of _Killer Queen_ , most of it drowned out in the ambient noise. 

Next to him, Sherlock was humming. John looked at him over the rim of his glass as he took a long pull of his beer. 

“You know this song?” 

“Hmm? _Killer Queen_? Doesn’t everyone?” 

“Well, yes, probably, but I’m just sort of surprised that _everyone_ includes you. It so rarely does when it comes to pop culture.” 

“John, Freddie Mercury could hardly be classified as merely ‘pop culture’, since so much of his music is still easily and immediately recognisable, even decades later.” Sherlock waved his hand in the air. “He was an icon.” 

John laughed at that. After all these years, he couldn’t believe there were things about Sherlock that still surprised him, and yet. Sherlock was a Queen fan. Who knew? 

The night progressed in much the same way: songs were sung, drinks were had, everyone got a bit looser and friendlier, comrades of the evening. Sherlock’s enjoyment of the music progressed from foot tapping and humming to absentmindedly singing a few lyrics in between sips of his drink and animated discussions across the tiny table. When Lestrade took the stage to belt out a rollicking, if very off-key, version of _Under Pressure_ , even John joined in at the chorus. 

It wasn’t even ten, but John was yawning, his limbs heavy now. Sherlock squeezed his shoulder and gave him a tiny smile. 

“One more and then home?” He asked quietly, his eyes shining green in the odd fluorescent lighting. John sat up straighter in his chair. 

“No, I’m fine! I’m having fun!” 

Sherlock didn’t answer, but his disbelieving look was clear as day. While he was sauntered off to their last drinks, John checked his phone again, and replied to a few messages from Mycroft. Nothing pressing, in fact, it looked like the British Government had everything under control. John settled back against his seat and vowed to enjoy the last little bit of their night. He had big plans for the _rest_ of their night once they arrived home, as well. 

Lestrade made his way over and John spent a few minutes chatting before realising that Sherlock had been gone a while. He craned his neck to see if he could see him — the crowd was thinning a bit now, the younger crowd moving on to wilder clubs and the older crowd winding down for the night. The next song cued up on the machine and someone started singing: 

_Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?_

The pub erupted in cheering. The bloke was good, John had to give him that. He took the last swallow of his beer, glancing around once more for Sherlock. He’d enjoy this one, John thought. _Bohemian Rhapsody_ had just the right amount of operatic melodrama to appeal to his partner. And from the first line or so, this guy sounded promising. Probably one of those people paid to keep the excitement going. John shimmied his chair over to get a better look, just as Lestrade leaned down and shouted over the cheering crowd. 

“I had no idea he could sing! Should’ve done this ages ago!” 

John looked up quizzically. Did Lestrade know him? Was it someone from NSY? Gregson sat down, a lopsided and goofy grin on his face as he picked up his glass and held it overhead, swaying and singing along. 

_Mamaaaa, oooooh! I didn’t mean to make you cry!_

_If I’m not back again this time tomorrow…_

_Carry on, carry onnnn._

John finally got a glimpse of the singer, but even a double-triple check didn’t quite convince him that what he was seeing was real. 

“Is that Sherlock?!” He asked stupidly to no one in particular. Lestrade laughed, his face flushed and sweaty. 

“Yeah! That’s what I’m saying. Great, innit? Like a professional! Had no idea, no idea. You've both been holdin' out on us!” 

John watched, equal parts enraptured and amused as Sherlock pulled the microphone from its stand and stood to his full height. He tossed his head and belted out the next verse with a voice so intimately familiar, yet oddly displaced, here in this crowded pub, singing — _singing!—_ one of John’s favourite songs of all time. 

John laughed and lifted his now empty glass to join in. 

If Sherlock’s voice cracked a bit on the _Galileos,_ no one noticed or minded, as the entire crowd was now on their feet, swaying and sloppily belting out the lyrics. Sherlock looked every bit the part of the adored rock star up there on his stage - his hair was damp now, pushed back from his forehead, and his eyes were closed. The hand not holding the microphone was waving about, making swishy motions no heterosexual man could ever pull off. John didn’t think he’d ever been more in love and wondered if he looked like that emoji, the one with the heart eyes. He found that he didn’t care. 

He couldn’t stop grinning, watching his favourite madman sing his heart out, his voice straining with the effort as he reached the final crescendo. 

John suddenly remembered his phone and pulled it out quickly to capture a few photos and perhaps a secret video or two, that would certainly be cherished forever, and _never_ shown to anyone. 

He sent one to Mycroft, chuckling to himself as the song ended. Sherlock’s chest was heaving, his face flushed, and his mega-watt grin could probably be seen from space. John clapped until his hands were raw, and as soon as Sherlock made his way back to the table, they wished Lestrade a happy birthday and beat a hasty retreat. 

Sherlock may be a diva and a drama queen, John thought on the excruciatingly long cab ride home, but he was _his_ diva and drama queen and John wouldn’t trade him for the world. 


End file.
